Forward
by NebThauDragmire
Summary: Atrus and the Stranger talk about grief.  [PostMyst, PreRiven]


**A/N: Don't ask what possessed me to write this fic. I wrote it at 2:00am, so no complaints ;P Oh, and beware the OOC Atrus. My mind has created a scary one. Oh, and the wonderful people at Cyan own Myst and Atrus, not I. So sad.**

Forward

I awoke with a start from my dreamless sleep. I couldn't tell you what had woken me. The only things I could hear were the wind through the trees and the faint sound of the wave lapping against the island shore. But I still woke. And somehow, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it.

I stood and stretched, looking about my current resting place. I had settled myself against one wall of the Library, under the picture that would open the door to the tower elevator. It wasn't very comfortable, but I only had a sleeping bag with me. I made do. It was all I _could _do.

I took a walk around the island in an attempt to calm my nerves. It was still dark, probably close to midnight. The moon barely cast any light on the ground. I stumbled a few times over hidden roots and rocks, but I kept moving. Something was telling me that I had to find. . . something. I believe I made five or six laps around the island before I gave up finding anything there.

I thought for a moment that, perhaps, what I was searching for was on one of the Ages.

_This is stupid_, I told myself, _you don't even know that anything _is_ wrong_!

_But something_ is _wrong_, I argued back, _I just know it_!

I decided to search one Age. I knew that the easiest Age to search would be Mechanical, since I had the password for the stairs memorized by now. Entering the Age, I decided that it did indeed look creepier at night. There was a new moon here, and so there wasn't any light to help me navigate the thin bridge leading to the fortress proper. I managed, however, with few slip-ups.

The fortress itself was well lit, which surprised me. The lamps burned with an energy source I could not identify. I only searched the brothers' rooms, and even then I only spent a few minutes in each one (Achenar's room in particular scared me greatly). The only thing I noticed was that most of the wine bottles had appeared to have gone missing from Sirrus' hidden chamber, but I dismissed it. I must not have noticed how many there were to begin with.

However, as I linked back to the library, my mind wandered back to the thought of the wine. I couldn't have imagined it, could I? Every nook of that rack had been filled save the one that contained Achenar's note. And now only a few bottles remained.

_What. . . or who? But no. . . he wouldn't. . . would he?_

I had to see. But it took quite some time. I couldn't for the life of me remember the pattern for the fireplace. I had to dig back through my journal first. I took it with me as I thumbed through the pages. Just as I was sitting down in the fireplace, I finally managed to find the pattern. I closed the door and hurriedly punched in the pattern. As the fireplace slowly spun, the feeling of dread that I had previously pushed aside hit me with full force.

_What if something happened to him?_ I thought in a panic. But I forced my mind to relax. Still, my hands were shaking as I opened the book and linked.

At first, all seemed well. The large room was neat and orderly. The books were nicely stacked, the pens kept in perfect order. . . but their owner wasn't at the desk. I swept my eyes around the room, reasoning that he couldn't have gotten far. My gaze finally came to rest on the man I was looking for, and I suddenly wished it hadn't.

He was in a sorry state. He hair was messy and stuck out at odd angles. His clothes were disheveled and looked like he'd been wearing them for some time. His glasses were gone. He was sitting leaning against a stone wall, fast asleep. But what disturbed me most were, as I had suspected (but had hoped not), the wine bottles from Mechanical Age. I sighed. He wasn't asleep. He had passed out.

I moved about him, collecting the bottles. Some had, to my surprise, appeared to have been there for some time.

_Under my nose_

I stacked the empty bottles in an alcove where he wouldn't see them when he woke. But the half-full one caught tightly in his grasp would be a challenge. I would have to wake him. I gathered my courage, then tapped him on the shoulder lightly.

"Atrus? Atrus?"

When there was no response, I tapped him harder.

"Atrus!"

I was shouting now, and I believe that shoulder would have bruises come morning. I leaned close to his ear.

"ATRUS!"

He woke with a start, almost hitting my head with his own as he looked around. I wisely backed up. His vision seemed to clear as he focused on me. His eyes filled with remorse and. . . guilt? He looked away from me to the bottle in his hand. Setting the bottle out of his reach, he spoke.

"I'm sorry, my friend."

I sighed, sitting down next to him.

"Don't be," I told him, setting my hand on his shoulder for a few moments. He sighed.

"I should be more . . . accountable. I . . . feel that I am responsible for your welfare."

"Don't. I'm fine. But you," I said, pointing at him accusingly, "Are not."

He looked away. I immediately felt guilty.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't. . ."

He turned back, grinning wryly.

"Don't be."

He turned his head back to look out at the room, leaning his head back against the stone wall. He seemed to contemplate his next words carefully.

"It's amazing what one will find themselves doing in stressful situations," he continued, "The way we show grief. . . some cry, some shout. . . I did both. When my grandmother, Anna, died. I didn't think I could move on. But I could. My family helped me though. Especially Sirrus. . . he had a closer bond with Anna than I think any of us realized.

"After she died. . . he didn't speak for over a year. Only gestures, looks, nodding. . . but he still could comfort. He came across me crying, once. I hastily made to stop and hide, but he just put a hand on my arm, shaking his head. He _knew_. He knew that we could not keep grief inside."

Atrus stopped, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath before continuing.

"But now he's gone. He and Achenar are gone. Oh, my sons. . . what could I have done?"

"Nothing, Atrus," I responded calmly, "Nothing."

He gave a small smile.

"I believe that is true. You are wise, for being only fifteen years of age."

"You grow up fast when you're by yourself with nothing but your thoughts for company."

Atrus gave no response to this. We sat in silence for a time. After awhile, he spoke again.

"What will I do now?"

I smiled, surprised at his forgetfulness.

"Rescue Catherine, of course."

Atrus' eyes shot open, and guilt once again invaded his expression. But it was soon replaced by determination.

"Yes, yes. The Riven Book only needs a few more changes. Then it will be stable enough to free Catherine. . ."

He made to stand, but the effects of the alcohol had not yet left him. He stumbled, and I stood up quickly to steady him.

"Before that," I said, "You need rest. You'll have a nasty headache in the morning."

". . . Of course. Rest. Yes, that would be best, wouldn't it?"

I laughed. Though I knew that Atrus was far from finished grieving over his sons, I felt that the worst had passed. He would move forward. That was all anyone could do.


End file.
